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GRANDMOTHER 
STORIES 


BY 


IDA HAMILTON MUNSELL 


IN THREE PARTS I 

GRANDMOTHER’S ROOM 
WITHERED ROSE-LEAVES 
GRANDMOTHER’S ATTIC 


CHICAGO 

MUNSELL PUBLISHING CO. 
1915 






Copyright, 1916 
by 

Ida Hamilton Munsell 


Tm.Tipfeer 

JAN 22 1921 


W. F. HALL PRINTINQ COMPANY, CHtCAQO 


PREFACE 


These “Grandmother” stories are dedicated 
to the members of the General Henry Dearborn 
Chapter of the Daughters of the American 
Revolution, Chicago, Illinois, of which Mrs. 
Louis K. Torbet was the organizer and of 
which she is regent. 

I take pleasure likewise in dedicating the six 
original songs mentioned in these stories to the 
same chapter, of which I have the honor to be 
a member. 

IDA HAMILTON MUNSELL. 

Chicago, Illinois, February, 1915. 


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CONTENTS 


PART I 

Grandmother’s Room 9 

PART II 

Withered Rose-Leaves 23 

PART III 

Grandmother’s Attic and a Resurrected Stradi- 
VARIUS 39 



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PART I 


GRANDMOTHER’S ROOM 

F ond Memory brings the light of other 
days around me.” Listen with closed 
eyelids and an ear attuned not to the city’s 
clamorous noises, but to the calm of a New Eng- 
land country homestead, while with words, in- 
stead of brush, we attempt to paint a picture 
of bygone times. 

Imagine a farm of many imdulating acres, 
seven miles from a town; a house of brick with 
colonial pillars, set upon a knoll where grew 
three-century old elms; a well with its old-time 
“sweep” and oaken bucket, not far from the 
front door; barns, three in number, and stored 
to the point of bursting with the season’s crops, 
all down the hill a little to the south ; night ap- 
proaching and in the windows of the substantial 
residence, lights glimmering here and there. It 
is supper time upon the farm “Elmhurst,” as 
it is known for miles around. The family 
gathered about the table, which stands in the 
massive kitchen extending entirely across the 
back of the house, includes Father, Mother, 

[ 9 ] 


10 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


Grandmother, Aunt Jane and a large family of 
children beside the hired men, four in number, 
and the maid-of-all-work. What a family was 
that, my coimtry women ! 

The rag carpet upon the floor is a product of 
the great loom standing under the rafters of 
the upper room. The beams overhead are dark 
with age and from them hang bags containing 
many kinds of dried berry and other fruit. 
Every article of food upon the bountifully 
spread table has been the result of home labor. 
Dream of it, you city women, who buy at the 
delicatessen shop, and who order enough for 
one meal at a time. Salt-rising and Boston 
brown bread; golden butter from the herd of 
cattle browsing in the lower pasture; poached 
eggs, and pressed chicken; great mealy baked 
potatoes served with cream; red raspberry jam; 
tea and milk, and pound cake to be eaten with 
peach sauce canned in great golden hemispheres 
in a syrup as clear as amber. 

Filled to repletion the group push back their 
chairs, the head of the family takes the leather- 
bound Bible from the clock shelf, where it had 
rested also in his father’s time, and slowly and 
reverently he reads the Twenty-third Psalm. 
One of the girls goes to the melodion and plays 
“A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.” Then 
silently, all bow the knee, even the dog and the 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


11 


cat, from constant association with this custom, 
assume quiet postures from which they never 
move till the long prayer is ended by a sonorous 
“Amen,” in which each person joins. 

As they rise and pause for a second, you will 
notice that every article of clothing worn, unless 
the shoes be excepted, is the product of the 
women’s work, and you will be reminded that 
as they retire to rest a little later, they will 
sleep upon beds, the feathers for which were 
plucked, the ticks made and filled, by these same 
active women. They will sleep between sheets 
and under blankets, patchwork quilt and cover- 
lid, likewise the work of their industrious hands. 
Think again what it meant, to card and spin, to 
weave, cut, fashion and sew until the fleece of 
the flock became clothing for an entire family. 
To preserve, conserve, and cure; to bake, to 
clean, and for a pastime, to knit stockings. 
Surely no housewife need be accused of laziness 
who lived and worked in these pioneer days. 

At length the hired men walk over to their 
special corner of the kitchen, there to repair 
a couple of yokes which must be in readiness 
for the morrow’s work. The farmer himself 
waits until his favorite place is cleared for him, 
then takes his spectacles and Pilgrim’s Progress, 
puts his stockinged feet upon a second chair, 
and leans back in the feather-cushioned depths 


12 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


of his beloved Boston rocker for an hour’s rest 
before he turns in. The mother, Aunt Jane, 
and the hired girl proceed to “do up” the work 
for the night, while Grandmother, dear soul, 
kisses her “big boy” and patters, in her soft 
crocheted slippers, out into the sunny south 
room, on the first floor, which has been reserved 
for her special domicile ever since her husband, 
who had planned and built the home, had com- 
pleted the task. “Father,” as she called him, 
had not lived many months to enjoy the home 
he had dreamed of so long. The son had mar- 
ried and naturally the responsibility of the 
farm rested upon his strong shoulders, but 
“Mother's room” had never been interfered 
with or changed. Everybody loved to enter it, 
but nobody crossed the threshold unless its 
mistress said, “come in.” The large square 
room with its big windows opening to the south 
and filled with flowers, was Grandmother’s 
castle. There, at any rate, she reigned as queen. 
Tonight three candles aflame on top of the 
dresser, make the room but faintly alight; a 
wood fire burns on the hearth, a Sleepy Hollow 
chair invites, and Grandmother settles down by 
the fireplace with a sigh of content. Can you 
not hear the song she is softly humming, “When 
Troubles Assail and Dangers Affright,” and 
again, a little later, “Loose the Cable, Let Me 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


13 


Go”? A Bible and Baxter’s “Saints’ Rest” are 
placed upon an inlaid mahogany table convenient 
to her hand, but her spectacles are laid aside, 
and the soft blue eyes are seeing pictures in the 
flames. Grandmother is dreaming of “Auld 
Lang Syne.” 

Meanwhile we will look about us a wee bit; 
first, at the gown she wears of soft gray wool, 
at the fichu of blonde net folded in plaits at 
the open neck and pinned with a cameo and dia- 
mond brooch of antique workmanship, the gift 
of a king; then at the lace cap upon her soft 
white hair, parted in the middle, drawn back 
loosely over the ears, and held at the back with 
an almost priceless tortoise shell comb. A bunch 
of keys hangs from her side, and her crochet- 
work lies, for the moment, unheeded on her lap. 

Little footsteps patter up the hall. J amie and 
Susie, the twins, have come to get their nighties 
buttoned, and to kneel at Grandmother’s side 
while she aids the petitions beginning with “God 
bless Papa and Mamma,” helping them all 
adown the line, till even the old shepherd dog 
and the big cat are included in the prayers. 
Then Grandmother takes the baby who has 
toddled into the room, upon her lap and rocking 
slowly, while the old chair creaks in musical 
sympathy, the dear old voice sings a “bye-low” 
tune till the little one is fast asleep. Big Sister 


14 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


comes in opportunely and carries her off to bed, 
then she too comes back, brings the flax wheel 
up beside the fire, and with many a blush tells 
Grandmother of her quarrel with “Bob,’’ who 
had been her sweetheart since first they trudged 
the long mile in company which eventually 
brought them to the little red country school- 
house. Grandmother smooths the girl’s blond 
braids, gives her much comforting advice and 
sends her, happy, back to the other room. Willy, 
the oldest boy, comes in to ask, “How would you 
manage old Sukey, Grandmother.^ She won’t 
mother her calf.” Here too the little woman 
suggests and relieves the situation. The family 
dog has crept slyly in, and his tail thumps and 
wags whenever he hears his master’s voice. 
At length the pair, boy and dog, reluctantly 
leave the room, only to make place for ten-year- 
old Margaret, who wants to know, “How many 
times does eight go in twenty-four, Grand- 
mother?” She has ten “sums” to do and she 
sits tailor-fashion on her feet before the fire, 
till, with Grandmother’s help, all are explained 
and worked out on the slate. Mother taps upon 
the door. “Time for bed, Margaret,” she calls. 
“I’d like to come in with you folks, but I’ve got 
sponge to set and cream to skim yet,” she says 
as she bustles away. Little ten-year-old rubs 
her eyes, gets the kinks out of her legs and with 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


16 


“You’re a perfect darling, thank you so much for 
helping with the hateful old things,” she too is 
up and away. 

Aunt Jane enters on an errand. Let us look 
at her. She is a tall, angular woman, who wears 
a “chignon” when she goes to church. In the 
spring, summer and autumn, she always be- 
decks her hair with flowers, arranged as a sort 
of head-dress about the wonderful structure at 
the back. She always carries a bunch of carra- 
way, and beside her chair, in her own room, 
stands a sewing table, upon which, together with 
the work-basket, there always is to be found a 
blue willow saucer of small size, holding raisins, 
cloves and peppermints. Aunt Jane always com- 
plained of “a bad taste in her mouth,” and these 
dainties were supposed to be a specific. Aunt 
Jane tonight wears a rose-sprigged delaine, of 
which she is very fond. Rumor has it that once 
upon a time a lover brought it to her from across 
the seas. Picture Aunt Jane with a lover! 
Harsh, unbending, angular, straight as a board, 
bustless, hipless, drab in tone and awkward in 
manner, what man could admire her.? At fifty- 
six, though, one cannot always look as one did 
at eighteen. Perhaps even Aunt Jane had 
dimples and curves and color when the mystic 
lover claimed her heart. She potters about the 
room now, much to Grandmother’s annoyance. 


16 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


for, although over eighty, Grandmother is still 
plump and fair, and a remarkably “spry” old 
lady who is never awkward in her movements. 

“Goodnight, daughter,” Grandmother says at 
length. The door closes with a squeak, but the 
mistress of the room soon remedies this by the 
application of a bit of goose oil, manipulated 
by means of a feather. Grandmother goes back 
to the fire upon which Aunt Jane had recently 
placed a huge chunk of seasoned wood. The 
high grandfather’s clock ticked lazily — “don’t 
fret, don’t fret” — as it seemingly had always 
done for years and years. Grandmother looked 
at the clock with a smile. “I can’t help it, she 
makes me nervous,” she said aloud. 

Sounds about the house grew fainter and 
fainter and lights were gradually extinguished, 
till all were asleep but Grandmother, who loved 
this hour the best of all. She stirred up the 
flames, wheeled a tip table beside the fireplace, 
got out pen and ink and began writing reminis- 
cences of pioneer days. The foolscap pages 
were laid in a neat pile, the penmanship was 
legible and regular, the style of composition 
good, and the theme one which was to become 
of great interest and value in the years to come. 
Grandmother didn’t know this. She just wrote 
for the love of it, thinking, “mayhap the chil- 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


17 


dren will find it ‘good reading/ ” after she was 
dead and gone. 

Grandmother’s life had been full of varied 
and wonderful experiences. Always active men- 
tally, she wrote as interestingly as she talked. 
It was a great treat to hear her tell of crossing 
the country to California, and of how, as recently 
as 1852, she had crossed the Isthmus of Panama, 
on the first passenger train. The road at that 
time was only partially completed and so she 
had finished the trip on the back of a mule. 
All these memories thronged her mind as the 
busy pen tried to keep abreast of her thoughts. 

Growing weary of sitting still Grandmother 
walked over to her piano, selecting a song in 
original manuscript, written by her own hand, 
she seated herself at the instrument and, using 
the soft pedal, began to play and quietly sing: 

“My love was out in the garden. 

Under the Almond Tree, 

All in the blush of blossom 
That grows for the honey bee. 

I came up over the daisies. 

Before she could look and see; 

I caught her hand and kissed it. 

Under the Almond Tree.” 

She sang only the first verse lest she disturb 
the family. 

“How Father loved that melody of mine! I 


18 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


wonder can he hear it now?” she thought wist- 
fully. Was it tears in her eyes, or was the room 
really darker than usual? she asked herself. 

The candles spluttered and had to be snuffed. 
Grandmother went to the “highboy,” opened a 
drawer and took out two more tallow candles, 
but lately fresh from the tin moulds filled by her 
own hand. She got two brass candlesticks from 
the mantel and when the new illumination was 
added, the room took on quite a festive air. 
It was only 10 o’clock. Supper is early on 
the farm. Grandmother turned the key softly 
in the lock. She didn’t wish to be scolded for 
this hilarity, this turning the night into day. 
The children would seriously object if they 
knew. They would think it “bad for her health,” 
but she “guessed she knew what was good for 
a body,” and she “hadn’t reached the stage 
where she needed a guardian just yet.” She 
went placidly and happily back to her writing. 

At 11 :S0 she gathered her manuscript to- 
gether, hid all traces of her recent labors, cov- 
ered the fire for the night, and proceeded lei- 
surely to disrobe. In one corner, between two 
windows, stood the massive four-poster bed of 
solid hand-carved mahogany, disdained by her 
grandchildren, yet a possession of great worth 
if they only knew. It had been in her child- 
hood’s home, so she loved it. There was a tester 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


19 


and curtains and valances, all of rich red damask. 
The bed was heaped mountain high with first a 
tick of corn husks, then two huge feather beds, 
over which were the usual number of patchwork 
quilts. One, a tulip design, beautifully quilted, 
was Grandmother’s special pride. Hadn’t she 
put it on the frames, spent three months sewing 
in the elaborate design, removed it, bound it, 
marked it with her name? Hadn’t she a right 
to be proud? The coverlid was a beauty in 
cream flax and scarlet wool. It weighed four- 
teen pounds. George Washington, in all his 
glory, bestrode a spirited horse in the center, 
while birds with wonderful plumage, and vases 
of huge roses occupied each corner. The date 
of 1814 was woven on one edge, as was likewise 
Grandmother’s name. This had been a gift 
from a governor of great renown in the colonies. 
At the foot of the bed stood the steps necessary 
to climb before one could repose amid all these 
glories. And in a corner near by rested the 
hooded mahogany cradle in which all of the chil- 
dren of her blood, for a hundred years, had 
been rocked to sleep. 

The old clock gave a sudden whirring sound, 
then its tune changed and it began to tick, “eat 
a bite, eat a bite.’’ Grandmother looked up 
with sudden interest. She surely was hungry. 
How well the old clock knew her needs! She 


20 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


threw a flowered-chintz dressing-gown about her 
still plump shoulders^ and in her stocking feet, 
pattered slyly out into the buttery, where, hid- 
den in a copper wash-boiler — a wooden partition 
of Aunt Jane's invention separating the two 
goodies — she knew she would be sure to find 
molasses cookies and doughnuts. “Aren’t you 
afraid of indigestion. Grandmother.^ At your 
time of life one ought to go easy, you know.” 

Perhaps the little woman imagined some 
whisper of disapproval of her act, for she 
shrugged her shoulders and set her teeth firmly 
in the delectable pastry. “I can't die but once, 
and then not till my time comes,” Grandmother 
told herself, and she ate her fill with relish and 
a clear conscience. There was cider nearby in 
a Wedgwood pitcher ; she filled a mug and drank 
thirstily. 

Back in her own quarters she began once 
more to prepare for bed. The old clock whirred 
and purred like a giant pussy cat and this time 
it sang, “sleepy time, sleepy time,” till its mis- 
tress yawned in sympathy. She brushed out 
her still abundant hair, braided it as she had 
always done since a wee girl, put on a lace- 
trimmed spotless cap and gown, snuffed out the 
candles, then in the soft firelight said the “Now 
I lay me,” which she had never outgrown. 

Rising from her devotions, she went to a brass- 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


21 


studded, hair-covered trunk, lifted the lid, took 
out a daguerrotype of “Father,” taken when, at 
twenty-four, he had first come into her life. She 
raised the pictured face very tenderly to her lips, 
a sob caught her throat, two big tears rolled 
unheeded dovm her cheeks. “Don’t think you 
are forgotten, sweetheart of the years,” she said 
softly, as if to one whose ears could hear. “You 
are always with me, loved one. Every day I 
wish you a good morning. Every night when 
the light goes out, I send you my goodnight. 
Some women forget I know, dear, but you will 
always fill my heart.” She raised the picture 
once again to her soft, old lips. “Goodnight, 
sweetheart, goodnight,” she whispered low. She 
crossed the room, laid “Father’s” picture on the 
pillow next her own, then she climbed the steps, 
settled contentedly down amid the luxurious 
covers and closed her eyes. 

A fragment of verse came into her head, “God 
and his angels will take care of you, of you, of 
y-o-u.” A coal dropped on the hearth, the big 
clock ticked on, but Grandmother heeded neither. 
She had gone to the Land of Dreams. 



PART II 


WITHERED ROSE-LEAVES 

G randmother had just come in from 
the garden. She was all in white: she 
had a bunch of forget-me-nots pinned on her 
breast. She carried a big Indian bread basket 
heaped high with roses she had just clipped 
from the bushes ; they were sparkling with scat- 
tered rain-drops from a recent summer shower. 
She came in by the rear door, and, as she went 
through the bfg kitchen she took a package of 
odorous spices from the table, then passed on 
into her own quarters and closed the door. 
Grandmother gave a gentle little sigh, but she 
went on with her self-imposed task. Taking an 
exquisitely woven linen sheet from a wardrobe 
of massive mahogany, she spread it in the center 
of her bed, then she emptied her roses thereon, 
picking up an especially beautiful blossom ever 
and anon to inhale its delicious fragrance. There 
was the faintest of pink tint on her cheeks, and 
occasionally a tear in the eyes of blue, for she 
was thinking of other days and of other roses, 
23 


24 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


the while she pulled the leaves apart^ and scat- 
tered them to dry. An urn of old Chinese pot- 
tery stood on the highboy. Grandmother glanced 
at it from time to time, at length crossed over 
and took it in her hands, lifted the lid and bent 
her head to inhale the subtle odor emanating 
from the jar. The room was now flooded with 
sunshine and filled with fragTance from the 
fresh roses and the withered leaves of the pot- 
pourri in the urn. Grandmother set the jar back 
in its accustomed place, but she left the cover 
off, bending her head once more to inhale the 
delicious scent, before she crossed the room to 
her harp, an instrument manufactured especially 
for herself before she gave up concert work and 
settled down on this farm. On a rack, in manu- 
script form, was a new song, upon which she 
liad been working that day, giving it the title of 
“Withered Roses.” She seated herself and began 
to play and sing: 

“My quaint old room discloses 
Withered rose-leaves in an urn. 

Everywhere our glances turn, 

Roses withered now, and dead, 

All their ancient sweetness fled. 

Oh, the pain these memories give. 

All the warmth is chill, today. 

All the life has passed away, 

Naught is left but rose-leaves, 

Withered rose-leaves, in an urn.” 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


25 


“My quaint old room discloses 
Ashes of Life’s roses, 

Hopes and loves, now lost or dead. 

And our dreams of life all fled. 

O’er the urn I bend and feel 
A faint fragrance from it steal. 

Like the past which comes no more. 

Like all vanished moments sweet. 

Naught’s now left but rose-leaves. 

Withered rose-leaves in an urn.” 

The music died away in a minor chord of 
exquisite sweetness and sadness. Grandmother’s 
head bent forward towards her breast, but a 
brisk tap, tap, at her door warned her she had 
no time to indulge in useless repining. 

The twins entered; Jamie and Susie were a 
jolly pair; nobody could indulge in “the blues” 
long when in their company. The baby came 
toddling in. “Make baby dolly, Dranma,” she 
commanded, and Grandmother took a white linen 
apron from the highboy and pinned it into 
semblance of a doll. 

“Baby wants eyes in dolly !” the little tot de- 
manded, so quickly black buttons were sewed in 
place, and baby, content, cuddled up in Grand- 
mother’s lap. 

“Now tell us a story about the nasty Injuns, 
Grandmother,” pleaded Jamie, but Susie, less 
blood-thirsty, said: “No, not ’bout Injuns, 
Grandma, but ’bout when you was a little girl 
like me.** , 


26 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


“I guess that’s better,” Grandmother agreed. 
“I don’t feel like telling ‘fighting stories’ today, 
Jamie dear.” 

‘‘All right, sir. Anything you say goes here,” 
consented the boy. Grandmother was thought- 
ful for a moment. “This is a pretty room, this 
’ere one of yours. Grandmother, did you have 
one as nice when you was a little girl.^” Jamie 
demanded, growing tired of enforced silence. 
Grandmother laughed softly. 

“Would you like me to tell of my home as I 
remember it when I was about your age, 
twinnies?” she asked. Both children gave a de- 
lighted assent. Jamie stood in front of the fire- 
place, hands behind his back in mannish attitude. 
Susie sat in a tiny rocker, which had been 
Grandmother’s own, and the baby nestled in her 
lap sleepily cuddling the apron doll. Jamie 
chewed on a straw in imitation of big brother 
Willy; his legs were very far apart, and his 
red-topped boots very much in evidence ; he tried 
manfully to be patient with Grandmother, but 
he shared the common masculine idea of 
supremacy with many of his sex. 

“Females is so slow,” he was just thinking, 
when Grandmother’s softly modulated voice 
broke the silence. 

“You asked about my childhood home, dears,” 
she said. “Well, it wasn’t much of a house, I 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


27 


suppose you’d say, Jamie, but we thought it 
pretty comfortable in those days. We had only 
two rooms at first. The large ‘living room’ where 
we all ate and slept and worked, and a ‘lean-to’ 
where we cooked in summer time, and where 
the hired men and the boys slept. In one corner 
of the big room was a great four-poster bed- 
stead, heaped high with feather beds ; under this 
was a little trundle-bed in which the smallest 
children slept. It was pulled out at night so 
mother could ‘tuck us in’ if we got uncovered. 
A big loom, on which mother and big sister wove, 
during daytime, occupied another corner of the 
room, and in the third stood a big mahogany 
cupboard filled with dishes of old blue, and 
pewter which we took turns in keeping bright. 
The floor was made of boards a foot wide, but 
mother kept it covered with carpets and rugs of 
her own make. You think you have to work 
hard sometimes, twinnies, but you ought to have 
seen me sew carpet-rags, and long seams on 
sheets, and make patch-work for quilts and sew 
‘samplers.’ Mother always said, ‘Satan finds 
mischief for idle hands,’ and she gave him little 
chance to get after her children, I can tell you. 
From the ceiling hung great strings of dried 
apples, rings of pumpkin, red peppers, corn and 
onions, with bunches of catnip and mullein to use 
in case of sickness. Then in those days we had 


28 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


no soap but the kind we make now but once a 
year, with lye and grease, in the big kettle out 
at the back. We all worked hard at sugar time, 
when father ‘tapped’ the maple trees and we 
gathered the sap and cooked it over an open 
fire into rich syrup and hardened into nice 
cakes, from which we cut pieces to sweeten our 
tea and coffee, which last mother made out of 
parched corn and wheat. Then there were days 
when we made the tallow candles. At first we 
dipped the string many times in the grease, but 
later we had ‘moulds’ and made them much 
easier after that, as you children know, for 
you’ve helped Grandmother make them your- 
selves, haven’t you, twinnies?” she paused to 
ask. 

“Yes, sir-ee. Bob,” Jamie said proudly. 

“Didn’t you have any lamps at all. Grandma ?” 
queried Susie. 

“Not at first, dearie,” was the reply. “Later 
we had ‘grease lamps’ like those on the highboy. 
And as for shoes, we could only get a new pair 
when ‘the cobbler man,’ as we called him, made 
his regular trips into our neighborhood. He 
stayed at our house often two weeks at a time. 
I remember he had a fiddle, and used to play 
for us to dance after the supper dishes and 
the chores were done. I used to think he was 
a great man then, and it was he who taught 
me first how to hold a violin.” 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


29 


“I bet you could have told him somethin* 
after you went to Paris to learn to play/* Jamie 
vouchsafed grandly, for he did approve with 
all his heart of the European triumphs which 
he never tired of hearing rehearsed. Grand- 
mother laughed softly. 

“I sent him tickets for a box, at a benefit 
performance, in New York, one night, and 
money for his coach hire beside. He was the 
proudest man in America I guess,” she said 
half to herself. Susie broke in upon her 
reverie. 

“Did your mother make all your dresses. 
Grandma she queried. 

“Pretty near all of them, Susie, dear, but we 
had an old maid in our township. Miss Susan 
Bean, who came four times a year and helped 
mother and big sister with the work. She 
was an awful gossip, and often made trouble 
between families, but there was nobody else, 
so we took her when it came our turn.” 

“Didn’t you ever have but one room at your 
house. Grandma?” Jamie asked rather anxiously. 
He was particularly proud of “Elmhurst,” his 
father’s big substantial farm. 

“Oh, yes, dearie. As we grew up my parents 
added a loft which we reached by means of 
a ladder. It was cold as Iceland in winter; 
the snow sifted in and lay in heaps upon our 


80 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


beds. We had a tin lantern punched full of 
holes in which a candle burned with a dim light, 
and we had a horn lantern given father by 
a ship’s captain, one of which hung at either 
end of the loft. Father had divided the room 
by hanging up butternut colored curtains my 
mother had woven with care. It was fun to 
hear father call my brothers at 4 o’clock of 
a winter’s morning, and to listen to the grunts 
and groans, as, one after the other, the boys 
crawled out of the warm feather beds and 
landed in a small snow drift, his teeth chat- 
tering so he could barely crawl into his clothes.” 
Grandma laughed a jolly, happy laugh as she 
pictured those by-gone days. 

The sun had gone behind dark clouds, the 
wind was blowing a gale, and raindrops 
splashed against the window pane. The baby 
was asleep. Aunt J ane, the spinster of the 
family, came in and carried her away. The 
twins drew closer to Grandmother’s side. Jamie 
always lost some of his masculine superiority 
in a thunderstorm. Now he gave a little 
shiver and laid his head against her knee. 

“Didn’t you have any good times at all, 
Grandma, before you went to Paris and got 
to be a big violin player?” he queried rather 
wistfully. 

“Sure, dear, sure,” Grandmother assured 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


31 


him. “We had paring and husking bees, and 
quilting bees, and singing schools, and donation 
parties, and revival meetings, and barn-raisings, 
much as we do now,*’ she said quickly, for she 
heard footsteps approaching. 

“Where’s that lazy Jamie?” a big voice in- 
quired. “It’s time to feed the hens and gather 
the eggs, and cut that rhubarb, young man,” big 
brother’s voice said, outside the door. 

“Spose I’ve got to go do those tornation 
chores. A man never can take a moment’s rest,” 
Jamie said crossly, and the redtopped boots 
made more than the customary racket as their 
small owner tramped down the hall. Their 
mother called Susie, and for the moment Grand- 
mother was alone. She crossed the room to her 
piano, always her comfort in moments of men- 
tal distress. She began to play a song, the 
music of which was her own. 

GOOD BYE, SWEET DAY. 

“Good bye, Sweet Day, good bye! 

I have so loved thee but I cannot hold thee. 
Departing like a dream the shadows fold thee. 
Slowly, thy perfect beauty fades away. 

Good bye. Sweet Day, good bye. 

Dear were thy golden hours of tranquil splendor. 
Sadly thou yieldest to the evening tender. 

Thou wast so fair from thy first morning’s rays. 
Good bye. Sweet Day, good bye.” 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


Grandmother, conscious of a presence outside 
her door, opened it to admit the big daughter 
of the house, who looked something as the 
white-haired woman beside her must have looked 
in her ’teens. 

“That’s a beautiful song. Grandmother, 
dearest,” the girl said, as she put her arms caress- 
ingly about the elder woman’s waist. “But it 
makes me sad, always, and this afternoon sad- 
dest of all, I guess, for I’ve just had another 
quarrel with Bob, who says I’ve got to choose 
pretty soon between him and Jasper. He says 
I’ve too many beaux to suit his pleasure. He 
talks as if he owned me. Grandmother, and I 
just told him he could saddle his mare and ride 
along home. It’s a pity if a girl can’t have all 
the beaux she likes. Did you want to ^settle 
down’ at my age? You must have had a lot 
of lovers. Grandma, in your youth, but you 
never have told me about them. Won’t you ask 
me in now? Can’t we sing, ‘Just a Song at 
Twilight,’ together, and then cuddle up in 
Grandfather’s big chair for a heart to heart 
talk?” 

Grandmother never refused comfort to any 
who gave her their confidence, so she closed 
and locked the door, lighted the pine cones piled 
high in the fireplace, and pulled the red damask 
curtains before the windows so that the dreary 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


33 


storm outside might not force its gloom within 
her quiet, peaceful room. It was only 5 o’clock 
but it was dark already, and it took several 
candles to give the cheerful glow Grandmother 
felt the occasion demanded. 

“You sit down at the piano, dear. I never 
like to put my hands to the keys when you are 
anywhere around. Nobody can hope to equal 
your exquisite touch, your sensitive accompany- 
ing,” the girl said modestly, a little later, when 
the pair were ready to sing. The elder woman 
made a curtsy. “I can’t do that either. I 
don’t wonder you had your audiences wild with 
enthusiasm, you dear!” the young lady said 
admiringly. 

Grandmother did look beautiful in the soft 
lights of the room. Her white dress fell in 
graceful folds about her erect form ; her silvery 
crown of hair was like a halo above the softly- 
tender, old face. The “forget-me-nots” had 
wilted and she replaced them by a half blown 
pink rose. Nobody would have thought her 
more than eighty years of age; as the world 
counts time she was old, but Grandmother in 
her heart of hearts knew that she possessed 
that pearl of great price, eternal youth! She 
knew too that “Love” had given her this boon — 
this inestimable gift without which she would 
have been wrinkled and bent and crabbed ; care- 


84 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


less of dress; snuffy and repulsive; a grand- 
mother whose only aim in life was to sit by the 
fire and knit^ or mend, or read, or dream the 
hours away. 

Grandmother seated herself and ran her 
fingers caressingly over the pearl keys. For 
just a moment she faltered, for she heard, as if 
the words were newly spoken: “Nothing but 
pearl, will be good enough for my little song 
bird’s fingers.” It was her lover’s voice and he 
was ordering the very instrument upon which 
she now played. 

“I can’t, oh I can’t go on!” She almost said 
the words, but she saw the girl beside her was 
furtively wiping her eyes. “Pardon me, girlie,” 
she said briskly, “but I’m not so sure we need 
a sentimental song just at present. Suppose we 
wait a bit for the music!” 

The granddaughter’s eyes were still wet but 
she tried her best to smile. Grandmother crossed 
the room to where a writing desk of rare 
Japanese lacquer stood. Once upon a time she 
had admired it, and the King — its owner — had 
sent it that same night with his compliments 
to her hotel. Now she opened the desk and 
from it took a box of sandalwood inlaid with 
mother-of-pearl. She pressed a secret spring 
and the cover flew open disclosing a packet of 
letters yellow with age, each tied with a dif- 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


85 


ferent colored ribbon. She took them up and 
chose the bottom one. 

“Read it/* she said. “It’s good for a fit of 
the blues on a rainy afternoon.” The girl 
opened the paper and read the opening lines. 
“Wait a bit/’ said the older woman. “Let me 
explain ! He was the minister of our village 
church, a widower with six young children; my 
father was his best paying member. I was a 
pretty girl of sixteen. Now you know enough 
to go on with your reading.” 

“Honored Miss” — she read, “I have your 
father’s consent to pay you my addresses. As 
you know, the light of my life has gone out. 
The inscrutable laws of Providence have stolen 
my beloved wife from my home. That home 
with its birdlings cries out for a new mother. 
I hope, honored Miss, you will consent to be 
that same. If you favor my suit wear a red 
rose on your breast to church next Sabbath day. 

Your obedient servant, 

Obediah Jackson, 

Minister of Christ.” 

The girl’s laughter rang out in a silvery peal. 
“What did you do, dear?” she queried when she 
could speak. 

"7 didnH go to church!*' said Grandmother, 
as she handed a note tied with orange ribbon 


86 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


to the other. *‘I was just getting a reputation 
in Paris when I received this one/* she ex- 
plained. There was a golden coronet at the 
top of the page. 

“Ladye Fayre:” it began. “This is from 
your admirer who always sits in the box and 
throws you the pink rose after your violin solo. 
I hate the big man who has taught you all you 
know. My hot Italian blood boils when he 
commands you to ‘play this’ or ‘play that’ as he 
may select. Fly with me adorable song bird! 
In my noble palace you shall sing and play for 
none save noble guests, and at your own sweet 
will. Your dainty feet were never meant to 
tread other than rose strewn paths; your proud 
head would do honor to the coronet I am laying 
at your disposal. Let me meet you at the con- 
sul’s house beloved, and adored America-na, at 
your earliest pleasure. Yours till death 

Gregorius.” 

The girl looked up, a look of awe upon her 
mobile face. “You let that chance go by, dear? 
Why?” she queried. 

“I could not love him, tho’ I did admire 
him,” Grandmother said gently. 

“And you chose my Grandfather, why?” 
again asked the girl. 

The elder woman put back the package of 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


37 


letters, closed the casket, and locked the desk 
before she replied. 

“At first it was the music,’* she said softly. 
“I had composed a theme for the violin. I 
heard what I wanted to play, but I could not 
get the violin to express my thoughts. The 
master took the instrument from me. Ts this 
what you are striving to say, little pupil he 
inquired. And then, fuller and grander, than 
I had dreamed it, he played my piece on to the 
end. It was always so after that — always to 
the end of his life,” she said with a sob. “He 
was my other half as truly meant for my mate 
as if God, Himself, had placed signs on us 
which read — ‘You two were made for each 
other.’ He read my unspoken thought, he put 
the music of his beautiful soul into every hour, 
from that moment when he played my music, 
child of my brain which refused to be born 
until his hand held the violin — until that other 
moment when with tired eyes looking into the 
great Beyond, he held my hand and whispered, 
‘I’m only going Home first, my beloved one. I 
shall wait for you up there. Play our song, 
for me now, my darling, and I shall go away 
on the wings of the melody which but for us 
two would never have been created. Play, 
darling one, play!’ And he fell asleep as I 
played — ” Grandmother whispered. 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


The girl got up without a word. She knelt 
at the other’s feet ; kissing the hem of her white 
robe, she rose softly and tip-toed out of the 
room, leaving Grandmother with her rose-leaves, 
withered rose-leaves, in an urn. 


PART III 


GRANDMOTHER’S ATTIC 
AND 

A RESURRECTED STRADIVARIUS 

T he light was growing dim in Grand- 
mother’s private room. The children’s 
mother. Aunt Jane, and the hired girl were 
hustling about getting supper. One could smell 
the delectable goodies when from time to time 
the oven door was opened. 

“I guess I’m hungry, them beans smell mighty 
good,” remarked one of the twins. 

‘‘Let’s put our playthings away and get 
ready to eat,” said the other, and the pair got 
up from the floor where they had been quietly 
playing so as not to disturb Grandmother who 
had invited them in. As a reward of merit, she 
had allowed them to play with some toys their 
mother and Aunt Jane had used when they too 
were little girls. 

“You think lots of these here things, don’t 
you. Grandmother.^” queried Jamie as he put a 
little lead soldier back in the box. 

89 


40 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


Grandmother looked up^ but for a moment she 
did not reply. 

“ 'Course she does. Buddy, you keep still. 
Don’t you know Grandma is writing one of her 
tunes ?” said Susie. She collected the remainder 
of the treasures, closed the lid of the chest 
wherein they were stored, and carefully piloted 
Jamie out into the hall. “Sometimes, Buddy, 
I think you haint got much sense,” she re- 
marked, as the door closed behind them. “You 
know them’s her bestest things, cause she said 
so, and you know too, she mustn’t be asked ques- 
tions when *the spirit moves,’ cause Aunt Jane 
told us that. You’ve just got to be careful. 
Buddy, or she won’t let us in again till she 
gets her writing done,” his twin said in her 
most serious tone. “Buddy” made a wry face; 
he even stuck out his tongue. It was an imma- 
ture way of trying to express masculine superi- 
ority. 

“Smarty ! I guess you don’t know everything ! 
Girls ’aint so much anyhow,” he remarked 
sagely. “What’s ‘spirit moves’ mean, anyhow?” 
he queried crossly. 

Grandmother heard the conversation and 
opened her door. 

“Better be good children, twinnies, or your 
mother won’t let you go to the party tonight,” 
she whispered softly. 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


41 


This suggestion had the desired effect, and 
the twins were in a very amicable frame of 
mind when their mother took them in hand to 
prepare them for an evening of frolic at their 
neighbors, five miles adown the road. Grand- 
mother in her secluded room wrote as long as 
she could see the words — wrote as if inspired. 
Once again the fever of composition seized her. 
She got up frequently and crossed the room to 
where her instrument stood and ran her fingers 
over the keys to hear the melody she was try- 
ing to jot down ere it could elude her active 
brain. On the rack was a piece of music 
which reminded her of the first song she had 
ever composed. Grandmother saw the printed 
words, “All men beside are to me like shadows 
— Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.” Tears 
dropped to the pearl keyboard, and the woman’s 
head sunk down upon her breast in utter aban- 
don. After a time. Grandmother went back to 
her table and resumed her work. She had 
lighted the candles, and coaxed the fire; her 
cosy room was aglow. It was almost supper 
time when she pushed her writing aside with 
a contented sigL She walked the length of 
the room once, twice, thrice. “I guess I’ll have 
time to play it through,” she said, then took up 
the paper upon which she had been working, 


42 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


went to the piano and was about to touch the 
keys when — 

“I’se dot youse dolly, Dranma.” It was a 
sweet little voice, but Grandmother looked up 
startled and dismayed. 

“How did you find Grandma’s Dolly, sweet- 
ness.^’’ she asked. Then she remembered that 
she had heard a slight noise when she was look- 
ing for something in the attic a short time 
before, also that she had been called hastily 
away, and left the trunk unlocked. 

“Baby naughty, Dranma?’’ piped the sweet 
voice. 

“Very, very naughty, baby dear,’’ the woman 
said softly, but she gathered baby and rag dolly 
— the dolly of her own childhood — into the com- 
forting warmth of her arms. “Bye-O-DoDy,” 
crooned Grandmother. “Bye-Dolly bye — ’’ 
echoed sleepy head, the precious prohibited 
Dolly clasped close to her tiny breast. “Dranma 
sing Baby, ‘Rock-bye-Dolly’ song,’’ commanded 
the little tyrant. 

Grandmother thought from time to time of her 
interrupted task, but not at all with regret. Sit- 
ting in the big rocker crooning a soft lullaby 
to the babe. Grandmother’s own childhood un- 
rolled as on a printed scroll before her. The 
soft little body against her breast, the drowsy 
crooning — “Rock-bye-Dolly — ’* how these things 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


43 


took her memory back to the days beyond re- 
call. “I wish I could put this on paper just 
as it appears to me, but somehow I can’t seem to 
express myself tonight. I must give it up 
I suppose.” Rising, she laid the now sleeping 
baby upon her bed. Aunt Jane came to call 
her to supper. Grandmother held up a warn- 
ing hand. “Hush,” she whispered, and Aunt 
Jane left the pair alone. Grandmother looked 
pale and exhausted. Memories of her engage- 
ment night of which this was an anniversary, 
made her feel pitiably old and alone. Crossing 
the room she got out the daguerreotype which 
always laid on the second pillow of her bed 
each night. 

“Oh, if you could but help me as you’ve done 
so many times before!” she wailed. “I 
am so helpless, so lost without you, dear ! See 
how I’ve failed tonight! I’ve the inspira- 
tion, but the divine spark, the soul of it all, 
eludes my grasp. Oh Master, husband of mine, 
can you hear my cry for help and let it 
go unheeded? Come, for my arms are empty.” 
Grandmother’s voice ceased, she had fallen face 
downward upon the bed. Only the tick of the 
clock and the crackle of the fire was heard in 
the room. Grandmother never knew how long 
she lay unconscious, but at length she arose, 
trimmed the candles, mended the fire and re- 


44 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


sumed her writing. Her fingers flew fast, and 
this is what she wrote: 


Climbing one day to the attic 
In search of olden store. 

My little grandchild brought me, 
Antiques she had found galore! 
Tears came to my eyes unWdden, 

And a trace of laughter too. 

As the treasures of my girlhood 
The child held up to view. 

But one precious toy escaped her. 

Of this I knew full well; 

Under lock and key I kept her. 

This old Doll whose tale I tell. 

Few there were who knew about her. 

Or dreamed of the magic spell 
That my girlhood’s old rag Dolly 
O’er my heart still kept so well. 

Father brought her home from Boston 
In the spring of forty-four. 

She had crossed the sea from England, 
“The best Dolly in the store.” 

To my loving breast I pressed her. 

She was all the world to me. 

Hungry hearted little “Mother” 

Whose age then was only three. 

On her head a gay bandana, 

Hair of yarn, and beady eyes, 

Fat and shapeless as to figure — 

Now she’d make gay laughter rise — 
But for long my old rag Dolly 
Was the chiefest of my joys. 

And I’d drop all other playthings 
For this, crudest of all toys. 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


45 


In the years which followed after 

There came laughter, there came tears, 
There was lover, husband, babies. 

And a public wild with cheers. 

Sometimes, long she lay forgotten. 

But today, though queer it seems. 

There’s no money that could buy her — 

My rag Doll of childhood’s dreams. 

Do not wonder that I prize her. 

Can’t you see she typifies 
All the freedom of my girlhood. 

All that’s dearest of dear ties? 

Do not laugh because I hide her 
In the trunk with tender care. 

This forlorn and worn out plaything, 

My rag Doll of forty-four. 

Chorus. 

My old rag Dolly, 

My old rag Doll! 

Poor Doll with beads for eyes. 

Up in the attic 
Underneath the eaves. 

My old rag Dolly lies. 


Grandmother threw the poem aside. 

“It’s all right so far as metre is concerned, 
and it pictures childhood’s memories, but it’s too 
long, and it does not show the mystic relation 
between the baby sleeping there, and the mother- 
love of the universe, which I am striving to put 
into song.” Grandmother tried twice more, but 
the results were not satisfactory. The baby 
awakened. Her first thought was for the pre- 


46 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


cious plaything. "‘Sing more ‘rock-bye Dolly* 
Dranma,** she commanded, and the woman car- 
ried the child to its mother humming softly — 

Rock-a-bye Grandmother’s Dolly, 

Rock-a-bye Dolly bye. 

Eight o’clock of the same night, a glorious 
October night, a night radiant with silver moon- 
beams, redolent of harvest smells and attune 
with drowsy insect noises. The front door of 
the handsome farmhouse on the place called 
“Elmhurst,” stood wide open, the light from 
the hall outlining the figure of a woman waving 
her hand in a gesture of “good luck and good- 
bye” toward the occupants of a big top car- 
riage just turning from the lane into the road 
proper. 

Grandmother stood a moment after her loved 
ones had disappeared before she stepped out 
into the moonlight, where her spotless gown of 
home-made woolen, and the soft crepe shawl 
with its heavy fringe, showed distinctly against 
the background of shrubbery near which she 
paused. She was listening to the faint sound 
of the horses’ hoofs; the laughter, suggestive 
of gay riders off for an evening’s frolic, from 
which sentiment alone had debarred her, for 
this, as we know, was the anniversary of her 
engagement, and she had desired to be left alone 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


47 


with her memories for guests. She stood look- 
ing adown the valley toward the south, whence, 
silvery with soft shapes of radiance, tall marble 
monuments marked the quiet acre where the 
dreamless sleepers lay. Unconsciously she 
reached out both arms, then let them fall help- 
lessly ere she turned, and, slowly retracing her 
way, reentered the house. 

This, disordered by its departed inmates, 
ordinarily would have claimed her first atten- 
tion, but this night Grandmother passed through 
all the rooms with unseeing eyes. Half uncon- 
sciously she found herself in her own chamber, 
and here, apparently led by some unknown 
power, she took from a drawer a key, and with 
it in hand climbed the stairs to an attic room, 
a room sacred to herself, and to which none 
other had access, no matter what the excuse. 
As she entered, she faced a large mirror, hung 
upon the highest wall. This mirror was a beau- 
tiful object, an immense pier glass, framed in 
solid mahogany. Her children liked new things 
but Grandmother had always objected to parting 
with possessions connected with her happy mar- 
ried life. What she could not find place for in 
her own quarters had accumulated in this attic 
room, but nothing grotesque resulted, for order 
and cleanliness were as natural to Grandmother 
as was the act of breathing. Sometimes it 


48 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


seemed as if the little woman was possessed 
of prophetic vision, as, for instance, when she 
told Aunt Jane, “If you live long enough, 
daughter, you will see how silly ’twould be to 
let these heirlooms go. There’s bound to be 
somebody who’ll want ’em for their value as 
history, and to preserve the custom of our 
times. You can have the new-fangled things 
all you can afford to, only don’t ask me to part 
with chairs and tables and dishes which are just 
as good today as they were in my great-grand- 
mother’s time, and that with proper care will 
be just as good one hundred years from now.” 

In the winter this attic room was like an ice- 
house; in summer it was hot as an oven, but 
during spring and fall. Grandmother spent her 
every spare hour among her treasures of wood, 
and silver and china and lace, of wool and flax, 
of jewelry and chests of clothes, all relics of a 
happy and unforgotten past. 

“I’m glad I saved ’em! Somebody’ll found a 
museum of historical antiques some day, and 
then they’ll prize these relics of mine, sure 
as my name is — ” and here she chuckled softly 
to herself, “is Grandmother, for nobody calls 
me anything else — these days,” she ended softly, 
but her eyes had a reminiscent look in them. 
She was listening to Grandfather’s voice as he 
had called her lovingly by other names, in that 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


49 


long ago. Grandmother stood in front of the 
mirror a moment — such a beautiful picture she 
made — the very ideal of ripened womanhood — 
soft, abundant, white hair; fresh, rosy-tinted 
skin; long, loose robe of creamy white; eighty 
years old, but a charming woman still. Yet 
Grandmother was not thinking of the picture 
in the glass, she was dreaming of the girl whom 
Grandfather had won so many years agone. 

Just beside the mirror hung a hand-carved 
bracket on which rested a small but beautifully 
executed pastel of the man she mourned. The 
empty arms reached out again. 

‘‘Sweetheart, I miss you so,** she said aloud. 
There were tears in her eyes as she crossed 
the room and bent over a chest of antique de- 
sign and workmanship, a chest once the prop- 
erty of a king, for Grandfather had been a 
court musician in his youth, and the chest was 
an heirloom from those days of music and suc- 
cess, when Grandmother had been his pupil be- 
fore she became his wife. 

The lifted lid disclosed a gown, a lacy, 
silken, time-yellowed gown. Grandmother took 
it up tenderly and kissed the lavender-scented 
folds. Shaking it out, it fell in billows around 
her. An impulse seized Grandmother, an im- 
pulse to wear once more her wedding gown, an 
impulse she had no desire, or power, to com- 


60 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


bat. Soon she stood clad in a robe such as Juliet 
might have worn in Romeo’s impassioned time. 
A lace veil, cobwebby and rare enough to suit 
a queen. Grandmother next pinned upon the 
masses of silver, as seemed her hair in the glim- 
mering sheen of the moonlit room. Silk, hand- 
embroidered hose, and low heeled, big buckled, 
brocaded slippers she next unearthed. Then, 
making a quaint curtsy at the image she saw in 
the glass, she looked again at Grandfather’s por- 
trait, and behold, he too was in his wedding 
garb! 

A sob caught in her throat, but she straight- 
ened her shoulders resolutely, and went back 
once again to the chest. Bending over, she 
brought to light an ebony violin case, which 
she unlocked with a key, worn upon a slender 
chain about her still softly curved neck. Ten- 
derly Grandmother lifted out a violin of a kind 
so rare as to be worth a king’s ransom, indeed, 
only a king could have given such, to a prince 
among performers, to a favorite of his court 
and realm ! As if under the control of some un- 
known spirit Grandmother picked up the bow, 
then she crossed to the big chair in front of 
the fire, seated herself, with the precious Stradi- 
varius across her knee. Grandmother’s head 
drooped forward towards her breast, her eyes 
looked dreamily into the flames. Grandmother 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


61 


was unconscious of the present and for that 
hour lived only in the past. 

One ! Two ! Three ! Four ! Five ! Six ! Seven ! 
Eight! Nine! Ten! ’Tis the big clock below 
the stairs telling the time. Grandmother, still 
with eyes intent upon the ashes and the coals, 
lifted the violin till her chin rested lovingly 
against the wood. Dreamily she raised the bow 
and moved it softly but deftly across the 
strings. 

“For there’s nobody just like you dear. 

There’s nobody just like you; 

With your smiling face, and your tender grace. 
Oh, there’s nobody just like* you.” 

That was the haunting melody she played, 
and the while she dreamed her lover seemed to 
say the words. Without abruptness the key 
changed. 

“Each hour I spent with thee, dear heart. 

Is as a string of pearls to me. 

I count them over, every one apart. 

My Rosary, My Rosary.” 

“Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer. 

To still a heart in absence wrung, 

I count them o’er unto the end 
And there a cross is hung.” 

Except for the hand which held the bow. 
Grandmother was as motionless as a marble 


52 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


statue, her eyes with intent fixed gaze always 
bent upon the flickering fire. 

Suddenly, an ecstatic note crept into the 
music, for Grandmother saw a procession walk- 
ing up the aisle to the strains of Mendelssohn’s 
Wedding March. Slowly, as if under hypnotic 
control she rose to her feet, and the victorious 
echoes of the master’s creation filled the house. 
Still standing erect and without a noticeable 
break, a minor cadence crept into the tone of 
the magnificent instrument, but this minor chord 
soon lost itself in a lullaby, as old almost as the 
violin. 


“Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber, 

Holy angels guard thy bed.” 

Grandmother was back in the big chair now, 
and she held the precious Stradivarius as if it 
were a babe. Soon a discord, a crash, a shriek 
of agony from the violin, and then the slow, 
solemn chant, the requiem for the dead! The 
tears chased each other adown Grandmother’s 
cheeks, but the eyes never left the fire, nor 
did the hand slacken which drew the bow, and 
which soon brought forth from the heart of the 
violin, the comforting words, musically ren- 
dered, “A mighty fortress is our God.” The 
tears ceased falling the while she played this 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


53 


hymn over and over again. It was as if pic- 
tured in the flames before her Grandmother 
could once more live the years wherein God’s 
grace had indeed been sufficient for all her 
needs. 

The fire began to lose its sparkle, ashes were 
now more plentiful than coals, yet still the 
violin sang on, a peaceful, contented tone in all 
its notes; but now, hark! a minor chord! an- 
other, yet another, a soft, low, sobbing, plaintive 
appeal, dropping from the slow moving bow. 
Listen, 


“I’m a’wearying for you. 

Just a’wearying for you.” 

The moon became obscured ; the shadows grew 
denser within; the music haunted the room; 
the chill of an autumnal midnight crept into the 
house. The clock below struck eleven times, 
its sonorous tone penetrating to the upper room, 
yet it remained unheard by the ears of the sole 
occupant, who still played on. No more were 
her eyes riveted upon the flames; they rested 
now upon the portrait of Grandfather, painted 
at the time when he held the homage of a con- 
tinent as nothing compared to the love of the 
woman he had won. A shudder passed through 
Grandmother’s frame. She rose, and as if 


54 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


drawn by invisible hands, crossed the space be- 
tween herself and the picture, playing a melody 
so sad and full of tears as to be almost un- 
bearable. Then with eyes intent upon the por- 
trait, she moved the bow gently, and the wail 
of a lost soul seeking for its mate filled every 
inch of space within the room. 

“I hear you calling me, 

I hear you calling me.” 

Sobs shook the woman’s frame, the music 
ceased. The bow dropped from her nerveless 
fingers. Grandmother gave a gasp of astonish- 
ment. She looked at the priceless violin held 
in her hand, at the portrait of “Father” on the 
wall, at her wedding finery, at the heap of dis- 
carded clothing upon a chair; at the wedding 
ring upon her still plump hand. Raising her 
eyes to the place where had rested the portrait 
of her mate, a look of glad sur|)rise made her 
face positively beautiful, for before her stood 
a faint, but apparently living, breathing vision 
of her master, lover, husband. As she took one 
step forward, she thought the vision raised his 
hand; she thought she heard the Master’s voice 
commanding, “Play.” Once again, as back in 
the years beyond recall. Grandmother raised the 
Stradivarius, once again she poised the bow. 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


65 


A smile of joy and pride, a look of exultation, 
of homage for the artist soul which commanded 
her own — then the bow rested on the strings. 

Grandmother was back in her twenties; she 
was once again in the Parisian studio playing 
for the master she adored. Notes positive and 
contradictory ; notes weird yet tame ; notes 
peaceable and bloodthirsty; notes half-silent, 
then noisy; notes hideous, then beautiful; fast 
flowed from the realm called “Memory Land.'* 
Subconsciously, controlled by the master mind 
of the mystic vision before her eyes, the 
woman played on and on. There was no time, 
no age, for her, wrapt in the music of a golden 
dream. No longer ballads and lullabies filled 
the room. Classics long forgotten came un- 
bidden from Memory’s chamber and her fingers 
played them as in the long ago. She stood 
erect, enraptured, a woman of striking dignity 
with the serene beauty of a ripened product of 
a great Creator’s hand. She had played half- 
way through a selection. This without warning 
suddenly ceased. For a moment she paused 
arrested by a sudden idea — she looked up at 
the vision of the Master. A beautiful smile of 
understanding illuminated her countenance. 

“So this is the help I asked for?'* she said 
aloud. A look such as a mother gives a beloved 
child, she caught on the shadowy face outlined 


56 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


before her; she noticed that the right hand was 
raised in the commanding attitude she knew so 
well — then. Grandmother shut her eyes and 
began once more to play. Words came too, 
which etched themselves upon her sensitive 
brain. Do you think she could forget them, 
these lines her master, lover, husband, guide, 
sent in answer to her prayer ? She remembered 
softly humming to herself words which truly 
portrayed her own haunting but elusive ideas, 
when, with sudden snap, a string broke, then 
a second flew in twain. The musician’s eyes 
went from the master’s face to the violin, then 
back where the vision had stood. There was 
nothing there. 

Grandmother paled and trembled. She took 
a step forward. Surely she was right, there was 
naught save Grandfather’s portrait resting upon 
its usual shelf. A fog of regret, a wave of 
sickening memory, swept over her. With the 
violin clasped to her breast, she went close to 
the pictured face of master, lover, husband, lost 
one, and once again, as on that other night, her 
voice broke the stillness with heart-breaking 
words : 

“Oh, sweetheart of the long ago, I miss you 
so, I miss you so! Every day I tell you a 
‘good morning,’ and every night, when the lamps 
are lighted, I send you my ‘good night.’ Some 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


57 


women forget, I know, dear ! but you will always 
fill my heart ! Good night ! Good night ! Good 
night !” 

A fit of trembling seized her. She reached 
out and gathered "‘Father’s” portrait into her 
arms where it lay crushed against the violin. 
She looked towards the window where, in the 
dying rays of moonlight, there seemed to hover 
a shadowy form; she took a step or two, but 
she felt faint and dizzy. 

“I’m coming with you now, darling; this is 
my last night alone. I’m coming — dear!” the 
voice ceased. A gentle fall, a silence; and in 
the moonlight a little heap of wedding clothes, 
rare violin and “Father’s” portrait. But Grand- 
mother was not there. She had crossed over the 
Great Divide. * * * Nestling against her 

heart they found these words: 


GOOD BYE, SWEET DAY, GOOD BYE. 

As I watch the twilight shadows 
Fall aslant my window pane 
I am thinking of my loved one. 

Longing for him once again. 

Years ago, it was, we parted 
In another twilight dim; 

Never, now, a day-time passes 
But my soul cries out for him. 

Good bye, sweet day, good bye. 


68 


GRANDMOTHER STORIES 


Good bye, sweet day, good bye — 
Just as oft as twilight shadows 
Creep a-down the heavens I scan. 

My sad soul cries out its anguish 
And my tears fall fast like rain; 

Thus, sweet day, thy twilight shadows, 
As they fall, so calm and still. 

Bring, each day, the same soul hunger 
Which God’s made no power to kill. 
Good bye, sweet day, good bye. 

Good bye, sweet day, good bye — 

Soon there’ll be no twilight shadows 
To be dreaded day by day; 

There’ll be naught but golden sunshine 
And the bliss of love alway. 

Then I will have joined mine own one 
And belong to him for aye. 

Since the souls by God united. 

Find each other, come what may. 

Good bye, sweet day, good bye. 



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